


Regret and Remorse

by jack_inaboxx



Series: crack in the glass [22]
Category: Original Work, Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_inaboxx/pseuds/jack_inaboxx
Summary: They're supposed to be worse, aren't they? Isn't he supposed to be better?
Series: crack in the glass [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774129
Kudos: 1





	Regret and Remorse

He thinks it says something about him, how easy it had been to adapt in that horrid mirror of a universe. He thinks that it’s not anything good. He thinks that if he could focus, he wouldn’t like what it says. 

In this one, he’s done things he’s not proud of. Many, many things. Things he wishes he could undo or erase. 

It doesn’t hold a candle to the things he did in that one. When he thinks about it, he feels an urge to… to vomit, or to scream, or to claw out his own heart. Some deep, seething feeling of violence. Towards himself, more or less, though somewhat towards the entirety of the universe. Of both universes.

His hands are still shaking from the unfortunate night terror that had so consumed him only a minute ago. If that- thing- is what _he_ had become… what had his counterpart been like? As he understands it, counterparts are the opposite of the people in his home universe… so what if he is the worse one? 

(”Thought you’d been _disappeared_ a while ago,” a stranger in a bar snickers, a moment before he slams the stranger’s head into his glass.)   
(”Aren’t you dead?” his friend- not his friend, not here- asks him, raising an eyebrow. “Should’ve known better than that. But it really did seem like they’d got you this time.”)   
(”This’ll be, what, your forty-sixth time ‘dying’? No problem for you, right?” A phaser in his face. A leer on the face of the other. He smiles.)  
(”I recognized your body. You’re not ours, are you? Not really.” He isn’t.)  
(”Mourning you was hard. I couldn’t share it with anyone. I thought the others were supposed to be kinder than us. You’re worse than he could ever be.” That cuts deep. It cuts very deep. He smiles.)  
(”Weren’t you supposed to be _soft_? A ‘rare kindness’ among cruelty.” He smiles.)  
(He smiles. He smiles. He smiles.)  
(It is not a kind smile.) 

He stumbles to his bathroom, heaves up what little food is in his stomach. Exactly the same as the last three nights. It’ll get better, he tells himself. (It isn’t getting better.)

It’s simple enough to tug on a uniform and make his way to the bridge, in a daze, hardly aware of anything around him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees red splashes of a cruel symbol on the walls. He keeps checking his comm-badge to reassure himself that he’s- what? Home? Safe? Bah. That he’s in _this_ universe. (He isn’t sure it’s home. Isn’t sure he belongs here.) 

“Set course for Deep Space Nine,” he says, and collapses into his chair. 

Fuck. 

Eight days now. Eight days on DS9 and it’s only getting worse.   
He’s just glad that his crew isn’t going to see him like this. 

Odo, being his usual paranoid self, apparently, keeps checking in on him. At this point, being the only contact with the outside world he’s had in _six_ days, he’s grown unexpectedly fond of the Changeling. That’s probably just from lack of socializing, though, latching onto whatever company he gets. 

He values it, though. 

“I’m starting to think you’re up to something,” Odo says, in his usual dry rumble. It’s a joke, he thinks. It’s hard to tell, with Odo. 

“Maybe I should be,” he manages, with a vaguely-forced smile. Odo catches it, he knows he does, but he doesn’t mention it. “Might give me something else to think about.” His voice is rough. He hasn’t talked much in those six days. 

“Else?” Odo inquires, tilting his head. “What do you mean?” 

…. is he ready to share that much? Is he ready to trust that much? 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. He drains his synth ale. Stares at the glass. Thinks. He has no idea what’s showing on his face and isn’t sure he wants to. Somehow, he thinks that it’s better he doesn’t. “Nothing at all.” 

Odo says nothing to that, either. After another pause, he nods, and ducks back out of the door. 

For his part, he manages not to drink any more that night. 


End file.
